Regrets.
by Cairnsy
Summary: Enjolras is emtionally worn and needs to talk. So Grantaire listens. Slashy.


Four warnings: 

1. I haven't written a Les Mis fic in nearly four years. I'm so rusty I haven't passed my warrant of fitness in three years.  
2. I don't like Victor Hugo. I'm a huge musical fan with knowledge of the book, but the original book does nothing for me.  
3. I believe Enjolras is human. That he feels, doubts, gets frightened. Just because he doesn't show his emotions doesn't mean they don't exist.  
4. Slash. If I haven't scared the purists off with the first three warnings, this last one should do it :)  


Big thanks again to my fabulous beta reader, WeasleyTwin2 - not only does she know Harry Potter but Les Mis as well, what great taste ;) Her wonderful stories can be found here: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic/?action=directory-authorProfile&userid=7776. Quick note: your email is bouncing my messages, WeasleyTwin, problem on my end or yours? :) 

And on to the story, already! 

**Regrets**

He wasn't sure what roused him from the drunken slumber that he had so diligently worked himself into earlier that evening. Perhaps it was the thundering of Zeus' chariot tearing across the weeping sky that had jarred him awake. Perhaps it was simply that the tavern owner was watering the wine down more than one would think possible. 

Perhaps it was the hollowness that seemed to have swallowed the now empty and quiet tavern. 

With a stifled groan, he stretched, careful to avoid knocking the small gathering of glasses on the table with his elbows. He blinked blearily, the part of his mind not numbed by the alcohol surprised that the tavern hadn't been devoured by the darkness one associated with ... he glanced at his watch ... 3am. Instead, candles still burnt brightly at various points around the room, their flickering energy painting the room in a delicate and soft glow that contrasted sharply with the harsh devastation of the storm that was raging outside. 

And perhaps inside, Grantaire reflected, as his gaze fell on the reason the candles still burned bravely. Apollo. Enjolras should have left hours ago, as the other students had. Warm beds and arms waited for most of them, and while Grantaire could perhaps see one of the other students deciding not to venture out into the storm, not mighty Enjolras. 

Common sense didn't stop the man, why would a little fall of rain? 

Yet there he was, gazing forlornly out the front window, onto the deserted streets beyond. His usually rigid stance was now bordering on slouched as he leaned slightly against the tip of one of the tables, seemingly memorised by the crashing rain drops. Arms that were usually active when proving one of his many points now were crossed loosely around his waist, almost as an insipid defence against the coolness the room provided. Grantaire wondered briefly how long it had been since the fire had died, and this awkward coldness had breathed on the room like an ice demon. 

It was almost ironic. The heat of argument or insult could not melt the marble facade of their Apollo, yet the coolness of the room seemed to have stripped the statue bare, leaving it naked for all those who were there to see. 

Or, as Enjolras preferred it, not to see. Any show of emotion that didn't require anger or determination was not thought of as worthy for Enjolras. They were certainly not emotions fit for a God to share with his worshipers. 

Gods, the man was barely 22, yet the weight of the world had taken up permanent resident on his shoulders. Perhaps Apollo was the wrong deity to assign to the young man, Atlas seemed to fit so much better. 

If it wasn't for the classical beauty that the man-child had .... 

He debated momentarily disrupting the other man's solace. Sobriety was coming far more quicker than he appreciated it, and with it curiosity binded with worry. Enjolras would surly not have reflected so openly if he knew his drunk companion had awoken, and he did not need to guess the likely response from the other man if he made his presence known. 

For someone who was so pure, he sure knew a whole host of insults. 

Leaving the other man alone would be the intelligent thing to do, Grantaire mused. It would likely save him from the man's sharp tongue, words that hurt far more than he would ever allow the other man to know. However, intelligence was something that had never been his forte, especially when it concerned a certain Greek God. Especially when said Greek God was for once minus his ever present companion, his mask. 

Apollo. Atlas. Maybe they both really worshipped the same God, underneath it all. Dionysis was not only the God of wine, after all. 

Yet, Grantaire had to admit, tonight the man who stood before him looked very much human. Even the candlelight which seemed to softly caress the slim frame and the long golden hair tied back from the sculptured face at the nape of his neck managed at the same time to highlight the tiredness that dominated the beautiful features, the loneliness that sank to the depths of blue eyes that seemed far faded from the sea crystal they usually were. 

Very human. Grantaire had approached him while he was a God, yet it was as a mortal that he feared the man most. 

Decision made, he quietly rose from his seat, not yet prepared to notify the other man of his presence. Cringing slightly as something in his back crinked, he slowly made his way to the front of the tavern, weaving his way through the abandoned tables and chairs. So lost in his thoughts was his Apollo that he didn't sense his approach, and it wasn't until Grantaire slid next to him that the raindrops and their ever constant rendezvous with the pavement lost it's vigilant watcher. 

"Grantaire!" Surprise was quickly replaced with the harsh marble that Grantaire was more familiar with, although tonight it seemed more forced, almost weary. "I apologise if I woke you from your stupor." The coldness that would normally accompany such a statement was absent, mockery only lightly tingeing the comment. 

Grantaire simply shrugged, gazing out onto the road. A heavy silence fell over the two for several moments before Enjolras finally spoke again. 

"What do you want, Grantaire?" he asked, exasperated. Grantaire shrugged again. 

"Was just wondering how it felt to be in the presence of you as a mere mortal, Apollo." Of the many possible replies that Grantaire was expecting, the harsh laugh was not one of them. 

"But I'm not mortal, am I?" Enjolras retorted, a cynicism about him that was so out of place lingering in his eyes. "I am the mighty Apollo, driven, single minded, heartless ... perfect to a fault." 

"Enjolras?" Grantaire quietly asked, taken back by the emotional out pour from a man who hid everything behind a staunch facade. As quickly as the fire had blazed, it squelched, leaving behind a sweeping tiredness that was just as rare. 

"Go home, Grantaire." Whether it was an order or plea, he wasn't sure. 

"You know, fair one," Grantaire continued, ignoring the other man, "There is a reason friends are such. Now, I know Patria may have fooled you into believing that friends are only those who will listen to your speeches and support your will, but there is more. Friend's are there to help ... to listen." 

A short, mirthless laugh. 

"Friends? You mock me and I despise you - it is interesting way to describe our relationship." 

"I mock you because someone has to, mon ami." He paused for a moment, working up the courage to say what came next. "And you do not despise me - you fear me. Fear the fact that if you indulge even slightly in anything other than your holy justice you will fall from grace to such an extent as I. Simply talking will not lead to your downfall, Apollo, and who better to talk to than a drunk who will forget what you said by first dawn?" 

Silence. Grantaire had almost decided that he had perhaps pushed to far - or hit to close to home, for the other man's comfort and that no response was to be followed, when Enjolras surprisingly spoke up. 

"Is it wrong to mourn, Grantaire?" he asked softly, his gaze fixated on some object on the other side of the street. "There was a ... boy. He was young, dynamic - he believed that the world was laid there simply for his exploration. He loved everything with a passion; life, people, books." 

"What happened to him?" Grantaire prodded quietly when the other man trailed off. 

"He was slaughtered, died a bloody death at the hand of morals. Oh, it happened gradually, but bit by bit he faded away until only a shell remained." He paused, before meeting Grantaire's eyes for the first time that night, the determination and dedication that oft shined there back in it's rightful place. "He was sacrificed for the greater good, and it is a death that should be celebrated, not victimised. Yet ...." When Enjolras seemed unwilling to continue, Grantaire did so for him. 

"Mon ami, the child is still there - he is but in hibernation. There is nothing wrong with admitting regret for his absence, even a God is allowed to regret at times." 

"There is much I regret," Enjolras readily agreed, much to Grantaire's surprise. That Enjolras would say as much was rare. "But *nothing* that I would change." 

"Tell me," Grantaire simply asked, ignoring the fact that he was somehow holding a serious conversation with the young man, one devoid of insults or mockery. For some reason the other man needed to talk, and for once was not treating such an idea as a weakness. Still, Enjolras directed a sidelong glance at him first before continuing. 

"I regret never being able to dance in the moonlight, or truly being able to feel the wonder of a sunrise. I regret isolating myself from my family, my inability to be close to anyone. I regret never getting a chance to live ... to love." The last was almost said in a whisper. "What is it like, Grantaire? To love something that is warm and comforting as opposed to something that is cold and demanding? To be loved back?" 

If it wasn't for fear of insulting his friend, he would have laughed. _If only you knew_ he thought, bitterness making itself evident. The young man was the object of his affections, yet he was too blinded by his 'justice' to notice that he *was* in love with something cold and demanding. 

For an intelligent boy, he could be incredibly dense. 

"Something as opposed to me." 

Or maybe not. 

The full extent of the metaphor sinking in, he turned to the other man. 

"I think it is a more important question, mon ami, to ask yourself why you must spurn affection at every turn." He waved a hand in dismissal as Enjolras opened his mouth to provide him with the standard reply. He gestured towards the collection of books that littered a nearby table. "See those? Vincent Rivière, Roland Grellier, Jérôme Avril - they all had your ideals, your drive. Yet they were not scared of being human, of loving, being loved." Enjolras was silent for a moment, before speaking up, a wry smile in place. 

"Another regret to add to the list, non?" 

"Oui, Enjolras." There was no bitterness in Grantaire's voice. "In the name of the republic." 

Enjolras didn't reply, nor did he meet the other man's eyes. Instead, he pushed himself away from the table and silently walked to the door where his coat was hanging. Shrugging it on, it was only then that he turned back to his companion, who had got to his own feet in reply. 

"I should be going, the storm is showing signs of letting up," He quietly said. Grantaire simply smiled in response - if there was one thing the storm wasn't doing, it was that. The other man hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Grantiare's for something that Grantaire wasn't quite sure of. Somehow finding whatever he wanted in them, he did the very last thing Grantaire had ever expected him to do. 

He kissed him. 

Soft inexperienced lips pressed gently against his, unsure what to do in their sweet innocence. That was something Grantaire's had no problem with, as he deepened the kiss after the initial surprise faded. His eyes drifted close as the object of many sleepless nights leaned into him. It ended as it had begun - with Enjolras. The other man pulled away, disentangling limbs that had somehow wrapped themselves around Grantaire. His breathing slightly heavier than usual, a slight blush coloured his usually pale features. Yet his voice came out even and calm. 

"One less regret to mourn," He softly uttered, his eyes once more studying Grantaire's before he spun on his heels and headed out into the rain without a backwards glance, leaving a stunned Grantaire with nothing to do but watch the figure disappear into the depths of the night. 

One less regret indeed. Perhaps for them both. 

**Fini****  
[Enjolras Shrine][1] **

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/delphic_temple/



End file.
